


first drafts

by OnyxSphinx



Series: newmann one-shots [133]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Eventual Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Miscommunication, Post-Operation Pitfall (Pacific Rim), in this fic we ignore uprising, penpal-era letter discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22180855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: after the War, they have to clean out the lab. Newt stumbles across a box of Hermann's, which leads, surprisingly, to a rather nice conclusion.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: newmann one-shots [133]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1286762
Kudos: 70





	first drafts

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Prompt B: "Did someone break in? Did they kidnap him?"+ "Not unless they also kidnapped all his things.""

It’s a nice day outside.

The sun is shining; the weather isn’t too warm; the trees are blossoming now that it’s spring; it’s not too loud, either, given the size of the population; and, perhaps most importantly, giant beasts from another dimension no longer threaten to rise from a portal in the Pacific Ocean.

Hermann, sadly, is not outside.

No; he’s inside, nursing a growing headache, because Newton Geiszler is packing—specifically, he’s packing while playing his God-awful excuse for _music_ at ear-piercing levels.

“Newton,” Hermann says, finally, after an hour of it, tone clipped, trying not to snap, “can you _please_ turn that off?”

The other sets another beaker in the box he’s got in front of him. “Sorry, Hermann,” he says, “you _know_ I can’t concentrate when I’m in an environment that’s too quiet.”

“Than can you _at least_ put on headphones?” Hermann asks, hoping he doesn’t sound _too_ desperate.

“You know that’ll only make it seem louder,” he points out. “Drift fuckery. Sorry, man.” He shrugs, and then adds, “But if you want, I can turn it down a notch or two.”

“Yes,” Hermann says, and then, because he feels he ought to say it more anyway, “thank you.”

The other blinks at him wordlessly for a few seconds, and then, as if coming out of a stupor, says, “Uh. Yeah, no problem.”

Hermann returns to his own task of sorting through years worth of papers. Despite what many may think, he’s not actually as organised as he seems, and, quite frankly, a good half of the things he’s got shoved to the bottom of his desk drawers are as much a mystery to him content-wise as they are to anyone else.

Some time later, Newton calls his name, breaking his concentration. When he looks up, Newton is holding a box up. “I think this is yours,” he says, “going by the handwriting on the sticky-note.”

Hermann desperately wracks his mind, trying to remember what on earth could possibly be in it. “Alright,” he says, finally. “Bring it here.”

“I’ll just set it on your desk,” Newton says, and hurries over.

“Careful—!”

But it’s too late; Newton doesn’t realise the slight difference in the elevation of the floor—that Hermann has been _warning_ him about for _years_ —and trips, dropping the box. He fumbles with it for a moment, trying to catch it, but only succeeds in grabbing the lid off and sending the actual _box_ flying through the air and hitting the ground, throwing papers up all over the place.

It’s exactly at this moment that Hermann remembers what is in that box.

Letters.

Or, rather, _drafts_ of letters—specifically, drafts to _Newton,_ full of all the things he never dared to say in the final copies.

He scrambles to pick them up, half-panicking. He manages to get about half of them before he hears Newton say, “Uh.”

He turns around to see Newton holding one of the papers, cheeks a little bit pink. “Wow,” he says.

Oh; dear.

“I think I’m going to go,” Hermann says, weakly, grabbing the box.

“Wait, Hermann—!”

Hermann’s already grabbed his cane and made his way out the door, leaving Newton behind him, the box clutched to his chest, cheeks burning.

* * *

“And then he read it?” Karla asks him later, when he skypes her in a panic.

“And then he read it,” Hermann groans, and shoves his face into the pillow, no longer meeting Karla’s gaze on the laptop he’s left on the table. “And then he _read_ it.”

“Well, it could be worse,” Karla points out.

Hermann makes a noncommittal noise. “It could be _better_ ,” he counters. “He—Karla, he read my _drafts_.”

He doesn’t mention the content of them; Karla already knows, given the he spent many a night bemoaning what went into them to her, years ago. “He’ll surely hate me now. Oh, Karla! I can’t imagine what he must be thinking—we shan’t be able to be close anymore, I’m sure of it.”

“Oh, quit being dramatic,” she snaps, “he’s probably just a bit surprised, is all. I’m sure it won’t be too bad.”

Hermann sighs. “You’re right,” he says, “anyway, I’m sure I can simply—play it off as a past interest. After all, he has no reason to suspect anything else.” He presses his hand to the mattress and rises. Karla, when he glances at the screen, is giving him a flat look.

“Alright, then,” she says, and that’s all, but Hermann can feel the exasperation in her tone. “Well—it’s time for me to go. Goodbye, _Brüderchen_.”

“Goodbye, Karla,” he returns, and the call disconnects.

After that, he spends the hour or so before he’s willing to go to bed drinking tea and trying to read a book he’s started, to no avail. In the end, after having read the same page a good fifteen times and still having no idea what’s going on, he sighs and closes it and gets into bed, resolving to confront Newton the next morning and put this whole mess all to rights.

He runs into Tendo on the way down to Newton’s quarters—it’s a weekend, so Hermann assumes the biologist will still be asleep; he’s not a morning person, but unlike Hermann, he doesn’t stick to a strict morning routine; it’s a rare day, now, after the war, that Newton will be awake before noon.

“You looking for Newt?” Tendo asks, conversationally.

Hermann tenses; has Newton said something about the incident last night? “Yes, why?” he asks, guardedly.

“Oh, I just wanted to know if you have any idea what he was so worked up about last night,” Tendo says, with a shrug. “He wouldn’t tell me what happened—did you guys get into a bad fight or something?”

Hermann breathes a sigh of relief. “You could say that,” he replies. “I, er—I figured I ought to set things right, you know, so..” He gestures widely.

“Ah,” Tendo says, “well, do you mind if I walk with you? I’m on my way to get breakfast, so—”

“Of course,” Hermann cuts in. “In fact, I’d rather appreciate the company.”

They walk in silence, but Hermann had told the truth; he really _does_ appreciate the company, even if Tendo doesn’t speak as they walk; it simply eases Hermann’s mind to have someone walking by his side.

He pointedly doesn’t think about _who_ it is who usually walks by his side.

When they get to Newton’s door, Hermann riffles through his pockets and pulls out the key to Newton’s door, ignoring Tendo’s raised eyebrow at that, and unlocks the door.

He frowns.

“Tendo,” he says, “please tell me what you see in Newton’s quarters.”

Tendo does. “It’s, uh…clean?” he ventures.

Hermann nods. “ _Exactly_ ,” he says. “Now, when has Newton _ever_ kept his quarters _clean?_ ”

“…never,” Tendo says.

“Exactly,” Hermann says, again, and then: “oh dear. Did someone _kidnap_ him?”

Tendo scoffs. “Not unless they kidnapped all of his things,” he points out.

“Ah, yes.” Hermann sighs. “I—well, he must…” he searches his mind to figure out what could possibly be going on. “Well,” he says, “er..”

“I’ll get going,” Tendo says, “good luck finding him.”

“I think I’ll rather need it,” Hermann says, with a sigh, and watches for a moment as Tendo walks away. Then, with trepidation, he steps into Newton’s quarters in search of clues as to what happened.

It takes a minute for him to realise the room isn’t actually _bare;_ rather, Hermann is so used to a horrid state of messiness that the tidiness our now displays seems, in comparison, barren.

And then the bathroom door opens, and he turns, slightly alarmed, to find Newton Geiszler standing in the doorway, hair styled, and wearing a very, _very_ well-fitting pair of jeans and a flattering blue shirt.

Hermann isn’t about to pretend that the image isn’t—well. _Appealing_.

He stares, frankly a bit confused. “Newton?” he says. “I thought you were gone—?”

“Hermann!” Newton squeaks, just before he manages to get the words out, and a red blush spreads down his neck and over his chest, a sliver of which is exposed, as he’s left two buttons open. “I, uh—wasn’t expecting to see you until later!”

Hermann shakes himself out of whatever stupor he’s fallen into. “Er—yes, sorry, it’s just that I came to apologise about last night. Sorry, er, I see you’re busy, and obviously expecting someone, I’ll get going—”

Newton shakes his head. “No don’t bother—I was just getting myself, uh, cleaned up, to, well…” he drops his gaze. “Come see you.”

“… _me?_ ” Hermann gapes.

“Yeah,” Newton says, “I was going to ask—but anyway, you’re here now, so I guess I can ask now!”

“Newton, what—?”

“Hermann, I really really like you, will you go out with me please?”

He says it in a rush of breath; leaves Hermann blinking dazedly at him. Finally, he says the first thing that comes to mind. “I thought you were kidnapped. Your room’s tidy.”

“Oh yeah,” Newton says, and laughs nervously. “I, uh, cleaned it up in…well, optimistic expectation, honestly. I figured if things went—well, that way, you’d probably appreciate it.”

“Yes,” Hermann says, faintly, “I do. Sorry, I think I need to process some things. Do you mind if I sit?”

“Oh—! No, go ahead,” Newton says, so Hermann gingerly sits on the edge of his bed. “I was going to ask you later, but…” he trails off sheepishly.

“Right,” Hermann says, after a few moments if staring blankly at the wall. “Er—sorry, can you run that all by me again?”

Newton smiles; partly fondness, partly anxiety. “I really like you, and I’d like to take you on a date and kiss you,” he says, patiently.

“Oh!” Hermann says, and then begins to smile. “Well—I’d rather like the both of those.”

“Great,” Newton says, and grins.

“You, ah, said something about _kissing…?_ ”

Newton laughs. “Yeah,” he says, and sits down next to Hermann. “Yeah, I did.”

When they emerge ten minutes later from Newton’s still tidy quarters to get something to eat, Hermann’s shirt is rumpled and his hair is no longer combed down, and Newton is wearing a euphoric grin. Between them, their hands are clasped together.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
